


5 Times Barty Said That It Wasn't A Date + 1 Time That It Was

by amorremanet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5+1 Things, Best Friends, Dating, Denial of Feelings, Friendship/Love, M/M, Marauders' Era, N Things, Romantic Friendship, Tumblr Memes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8607655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: Barty had done wrong enough by Regulus at the start of term, when he’d lost his head in the hurt of losing the Prefect’s badge to his best friend and had subsequently shut out most of his friends, especially his best friend, and worked himself so hard that he barely made it through apologizing to Regulus before passing out in the corridor. Bringing up his reasons for wanting to avoid No. 12 Grimmauld Place would simply make things worse. Folding his arms over his chest, he glanced over at Regulus, and then—
   “Why don’t you come with me?” he said before he could talk himself out doing so.  That idea drew Regulus out of his book. He even closed it as he frowned at Barty and asked him, “Why?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr meme prompt from lxttleking. Looked over but unbeta'd, so any lingering mistakes are mine alone.
> 
> I have no idea what to say for myself on this one, because I entirely intended for it to be shorter. Then, I lost control of my life a little and it…… kind of wasn't.

**1.** The Christmas hols were fast approaching, and every day brought Barty closer to the Ministry’s annual New Year’s Eve fundraiser gala for St. Mungo’s. There was no way out of it. There never was. Back in first year, Barty had tried to use academic anxieties to get out of going home for the hols and subsequently being forced to attend. In retaliation, Father had been there at King’s Cross to escort Barty home, called him to the carpet for, “attempting to shirk his duties as a son,” and subsequently missed every day of the holiday, excepting Christmas Eve, the day itself, and gala night, which he had spent humiliating Barty at every turn.

“ _Of course, he’s very studious,”_ Bartemius Crouch Sr. had told the rest of the people assembled at their table, even with Mother and Grandmother glaring at him and hissing at him to stop. _“He is so dedicated a student that he_ _ **almost**_ _managed not to come tonight. He swears that his marks are exemplary, but I am withholding my acceptance of that until I see them for myself. Personally, I cannot fathom why else he would have tried to avoid his_ _ **duties**_ _by failing to appear tonight.”_

Maybe things would not be quite so horrible this year. Still, Father always found some way to make gala night its own special form of suffering, whether that meant reprimanding Barty for not having a girlfriend yet, or reminding him that he had failed to make Prefect this year, or acting as though he didn’t love his Mother or care for her to her satisfaction. Barty hardly even wanted to think about something so tedious as putting on his nicest dress robes, only to waste an entire night with _those_ people, repeating the same damn steps that they went through every year.

If it were only Father making everything unbearable, the gala would be bad enough. Unfortunately, everyone else who ever showed up would make it worse.

Grandfather, Rufus Scrimgeour, and Alastor Moody would abstain from alcohol most of the night, only to end up wasted by midnight — with Moody only drinking from his personal flask, as always. Alice Prewett would be perfectly lovely, at least in the moments when she could break away from the great, thundering oaf she’d married, but Frank Longbottom would be sickeningly idealistic at anyone who stood still long enough for him to approach. Maybe Auror Dawlish would have his wife with him; maybe she would finally have divorced him or at least opted out of going to the gala and being reminded that her husband was _truly_ married to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Either way, he’d be utterly miserable company and appoint himself to the job of policing anyone underage, as though anybody asked that of him.

“He’s such a bore, I honestly have no idea how anybody in the Department can stand him,” Barty groused, sinking into the other end of the sofa where Regulus sat. “If he weren’t relatively competent as an Auror, I swear that they would have sacked him by now because his attitude is abysmal and he isn’t particularly creative.”

Even though his friend was immersed in a copy of _Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms_ , he gave Barty a nod by way of acknowledging that he was, indeed, listening. With a huff, Barty glanced around the Slytherin Common Room, simply to ensure that nobody else had decided to eavesdrop. Fortunately, they were more or less alone. Considering the looming threat of midterm exams, most of the other Slytherins were likely in the library. As for the ones who remained: a small group of first years was fixated on a game of Exploding Snap. Josiah and Claudius, the youngest Wilkes and the youngest Lestrange, had a similar idea of ignoring exams to the best of their ability, though they’d taken to playing chess instead. Josiah’s twin sister and Regulus’s fellow Prefect, Julianne, was hard at work on an essay, and Severus was ensconced in the dimly lit corner that was informally known among Slytherins as _Snape’s Spot_ , immersed in who-even-knew-what.

No one was paying enough attention to be troublesome, so Barty went on: “Dawlish isn’t even the worst of gala night. Worst in general, perhaps. At least, he’s a decent candidate for the title. But he certainly won’t be the worst part of the affair…”

Opposing Dawlish — and only entirely because gala night fell on New Year’s Eve — Auror Savage, Trainee Auror Fenwick, and Hitwizard Pepper would intercede and try to encourage a little recklessness in, “the younglings,” meaning Barty, Dawlish’s son Kevin, and any other DMLE employees’ offspring who’d been made to come. Maybe Professor Slughorn would join in, given that every year, without fail, _someone_ gave him a ticket for no apparent reason. They’d argue that everything was all in good fun and certainly make it sound convincing, only for Dolores Umbridge to invite herself into the conversation with some nauseating, insipid rubbish about how she _knew_ that they could not be thinking of breaking any rules, could they. Because she _knew_ that they were good, upstanding young witches and wizards who would _never_ do anything to shame or humiliate their families in such a manner, even simply attempting to drink something better than _Butterbeer_.

Even after Umbridge tried to stop it, Fenwick would probably linger, specifically trying to needle Barty. He wasn’t even fully certified yet, but apparently, he thought that he knew everything. At the very least, he thought that he knew _anything_ about Barty. All he could have possibly known was probably some kind of lie. The only _true_ thing that he could have known was that Barty had been the Chaser who’d thrown a Quaffle so that Fenwick would catch it but be knocked back through the hoop with it, during Gryffindor/Slytherin match in his final year, Barty and Regulus’s third.

“ _Then_ , if the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts people got tickets, my Father’s cousin will be in attendance, with his wife, though their children will likely be left at home—”

“The Weasleys are a bunch of Blood Traitors,” Regulus pointed out, without looking up from his book, “and don’t they live in abject poverty? Poverty of the sort where they’d need to go hungry for six weeks to buy those tickets? You hardly _need_ to talk to them, even if some miracle allows them to show up.”

“Oh, it’s no miracle.” Barty rolled his eyes, not at Regulus but at this whole, tiresome affair. “Whenever they show up, it’s always with the rest of the Muggle Artefacts Office people, and it’s _always_ some show that the Minister’s office puts on for the _Prophet_. For Rita Skeeter, and her gossip-mongering, and any other members of the Fourth Estate who manage to get in for the night. The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, the Centaur Liaison Office — they invite all of the useless members of the Ministry and buy up tickets for them, all so they can claim that the whole institution _stands in solidarity_ with St. Mungo’s… As though the hospital can’t do better than the likes of them.”

Regulus snorted, albeit softly and almost politely, and smirked. He had the same glint in his eyes that his brother sometimes got, for all Regulus could only put it to _good_ use while Sirius only ever used it to wreak havoc.

Before he could say anything else, though, Barty told him, “It’s hardly a laughing matter, you know. The hospital sees almost none of the proceeds from gala night. Most of the gold goes to covering the overhead costs — the catering, the alcohol, overtime pay for the Hitwizards and trainee Aurors who get stuck doing the security detail. They’re horrible about actually making good on any of their promises. Gala night is a tedious affair and a complete sham, besides.”

“Why doesn’t your Mother get you out of it, if you hate going to it so much?” Regulus said as though this point was obvious and being ignored. “All she would need to do is tell your Father that you have something important to attend to for her, and then you could spend the night at Grimmauld Place instead.”

“But then _she_ would be there alone,” Barty said and sighed. “I couldn’t do that to her. Grandfather is too much himself to actually look after her. Easily distracted, boisterous, excited to be social — she could have an attack right there and he might not be any the wiser.”

Aside from that, Walburga Black terrified Barty more than the Ministry’s employees bored him, especially in light of Sirius’s disownment this past summer, but saying that would hardly be helpful. Barty had done wrong enough by Regulus at the start of term, when he’d lost his head in the hurt of losing the Prefect’s badge to his _best friend_ and had subsequently shut out most of his friends, especially his _**best**_ _friend_ , and worked himself so hard that he barely made it through apologizing to Regulus before passing out in the corridor. Bringing up his reasons for wanting to avoid No. 12 Grimmauld Place would simply make things worse. Folding his arms over his chest, he glanced over at Regulus, and then—

“Why don’t _you_ come with me?” he said before he could talk himself out doing so.

That idea drew Regulus out of his book. He even closed it as he frowned at Barty and asked him, “ _Why_?”

“None of the other, ‘younglings’ who come are worth the time of day. I mean, Dawlish’s son can’t help it. He’s better than some, but he’s still a Gryffindor and with a father like Dawlish, you can understand why he’s only barely better than his old man. The rest of them are no help, though — but you…” He tried not to sound too breathless, and he tried not to look at Regulus with too much excitement. “You’re always a welcome friend. My Mother could get you a ticket easily. Besides, you could get out of the house for the night, and it would be good press for your family, wouldn’t it? They can say what they want about anything else, but think about it. No one can argue with supporting St. Mungo’s.”

After a moment’s thought, Regulus nodded and supposed that he agreed. “So, what is this going to be, then?” he said. “Am I going to be your _date_?”

“What — No! Of course not,” Barty said, but he didn’t manage to hide how the way his cheeks twinged pink.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 **2.** “Barty, this is completely ridiculous and if you keep trying to tell me that you aren’t freezing, I will hex you until you tell the truth.”

Strictly speaking, Barty didn’t disagree with Regulus on that count — at least, not on every part of it. That they had to watch Hufflepuff playing Ravenclaw in the middle of February, for example? That they had to sit out in the biting cold when they should have been watching the match in November? _That_ was ridiculous. James Potter’s commentating was _always_ ridiculous, a fact he confirmed when Ms. Charlotte Edgecombe of scored and Potter tried to congratulate her by trying to rouse the Ravenclaws in a badly rewritten and off-key rendition of, “Charlie Is My Darling.”

Regulus huffed and rolled his eyes. Slouching forward, he buried his hands in his cloak and said, “Actually, I meant that the fact that you are currently making me watch a Quidditch match I absolutely have no interest in, is what’s ridiculous, at the moment. Never mind that the cold’s worn down our Warming Charms twice already, or the way that you are _actually paying attention_ to a match that has nothing to do with us—”

“It has _everything_ to do with us, Regulus.” Barty snapped more than he intended, and took a deep breath before continuing, much more calmly: “Yes, we’ve already played Hufflepuff due to that rescheduling disaster — but we have yet to face Ravenclaw—”

“A fact that, to me, means that we should be sensible and _go back_ _inside_ , so that we don’t catch our deaths of something and leave the team down two of its best players.” Regulus frowned deeper than he’d been frowning since coming out to the stands. “Especially _you_. I’ve already had to drag you to the Hospital Wing twice since we got back from the hols. Severus told me that he’s done so twice as well — _three_ times if we include the time he actually came out to find you after you skipped dinner to snoop on the Ravenclaw practice but he didn’t want to count it—”

“Why wouldn’t it count?”

“Because he was only looking for you at all because I asked him to help me. Anyway, the one time when Julianne helped, she only didn’t drag you down to Pomfrey because she emotionally manipulated you until you listened to her and went yourself. If any of us need to give you a repeat performance of this, I will not hesitate to dock points from our own House over it.”

“I’ll believe that when you actually do it.” Shaking his head, Barty slumped down to be on Regulus’s level again as he explained, “Look: Urquhart is a blithering idiot who makes flobberworms look intelligent. He’s all but told the team that he’s so certain we will win the Quidditch Cup, that he’s content with barely practicing at all until our match with Ravenclaw. Worse than that, he isn’t even _trying_ to look at their strategy. If we don’t remedy this, then he _will_ lose us the Cup, and the best way to fight his lack of planning? Is to watch the Ravenclaw team in action, and not just at practices, but in a game.”

Regulus considered that for a moment and nodded. “The more we know about their favored strategies this year, the better prepared we are to beat them.”

“And the better prepared we was to beat them, the likelier we are to do so, and the better chances we have of winning this year’s Quidditch Cup.” Barty grinned at Regulus. “It’s simple, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.” Regulus shrugged. The Ravenclaw crowd cheered as Ms. Edgecombe scored again, and when the uproar died down, he added, “If you want to get me on a date so badly, you could try just asking me.”

Barty ducked his head and bit on his lip. “It’s not a date.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 **3.** “You’re going to this Hogsmeade Weekend, Barty. This isn’t a discussion.”

“Regulus, you’re my friend and I don’t begrudge you your frustration with me on this point—”

“So, you’re going to stop trying to weasel out of this and _go to Hogsmeade like a normal person_.”

Had he not felt like taking a nap on his textbooks instead of working, Barty would have glared at Regulus. Still, he pushed his chair back from their table in the Common Room, so that Regulus could properly appreciate the view of him folding up his arms in resolution and setting his jaw as much as he could muster.

Regulus only arched an eyebrow at him as if to ask if he was done yet.

“If you don’t begrudge me my frustration,” he drawled, “then not fighting me on this point is the absolute _least_ that you could do. Not least after you _skipped out_ on the last Hogsmeade weekend and spent it _in the library_. Had you skived off to visit the Hospital Wing, I would have understood and even _encouraged_ it, but no. No, you were _not_ showing an ounce of self-preservation. You were in the library. _Studying_.”

“I had work to do. Our O.W.L.s are coming sooner than we know it—”

“And you will not fail all of them because you took a break to go to Hogsmeade. Fresh air, sunlight, and giving yourself a rest would probably _help_ you, actually. Or are we currently pretending that Severus hasn’t refused to sell you any more extra Calming Draughts?”

Barty curled one leg up onto the chair with him and shook his head. “I can manage without him replenishing my supply. Brewing it isn’t actually that difficult—”

“That. Is _not_. The issue,” Regulus said, “and don’t act like you don’t know that.”

Groaning, Barty knocked his head back against the chair. When Regulus didn’t respond to that, Barty gave it up. He went back to sitting in his chair properly and nudged it back up to the table. For all he knew that he shouldn’t have let the silence between them linger for so long, Barty couldn’t think of anything to say.

After long enough, Regulus took it into his own hands: “Besides, your birthday’s next Monday. Consider this Hogsmeade weekend a birthday present to yourself and _take a break_.”

“Will you take it with me?” Barty said, fussing with one of his cuffs.

Regulus wrinkled his nose like Barty might have asked him this in Greek. “Why wouldn’t I spend Saturday with you?”

“Well, Valentine’s Day was _this_ Monday,” Barty said with a shrug. “I thought that you might spend the day with Julianne instead and leave me to my own devices.”

“That would’ve been strange for me to do, considering that I am not going out with Julianne.” Arching his eyebrow again, Regulus looked Barty up and down, then asked, “Why do you care? Is this a _date_?”

“Of course it’s not!” Barty could feel the blush rising to his cheeks, but still, he insisted, “I just wanted to know whether or not I would be expected to spend this, ‘birthday present to myself’ alone. It’s not much of a present if I can’t have my best friend there for it.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 **4.** The Fridays before Hogsmeade weekends were always tedious. Time seemed to drag slower than usual, as if to spite all of the students who were looking forward to getting out of the castle and into the village, and all of the students who couldn’t make the visit for whichever reason. In Barty’s case, time seemed to drag slower because everyone else around him couldn’t wait to get to Hogsmeade and they insisted on dragging him along into their impatience.

So, for James Potter to come up in the library and tap him on the shoulder? That was one of the last things that Barty needed on a day that was intent on taking forever to get over with already.

James Potter asking if he could borrow Barty from Regulus for a minute? Similarly, this was one of the last things that Barty needed. It took an incredible amount of effort not to groan or roll his eyes as he followed the other boy out of the library, and Barty only hoped that this was as painful for Potter as it was for him.

In all likelihood, Potter was in the same boat as Barty, or a similar one at any rate. Neither of them ever enjoyed having to play go-between when Sirius and Regulus refused to talk to each other like adults, so it was likely that Potter wasn’t having any fun right now either, but it was always hard to tell with Potter. Sometimes, he seemed exactly like the smug, swaggering blight upon every good thing at Hogwarts, like Severus thought he was. Other times, the concern he showed for some people seemed at least partly genuine. His devotion to Sirius certainly seemed to be as powerful, heartfelt, and true as anyone’s devotion could be, even though Sirius didn’t deserve even half of it — all of this made James Potter infuriatingly difficult to predict with any certainty.

At least he was relatively to the point about things, once he and Barty were in the corridor and away from Madame Pince’s eavesdropping and her insistent _shush_ ing: “Sorry to pull you away from yours and Reggie’s little study date—”

“It’s _not a date_.” Barty did roll his eyes for that remark. “And as ever? He prefers, ‘Regulus.’ Not, ‘Reggie.’”

“Whatever, Blondie — can we just get this _over_ with, please?” Potter sighed, then took a deep breath and rattled off: “So, Sirius heard from Mary, who heard from Vanessa, who heard from Juls…… that you and his brother are going to Hogsmeade together tomorrow.”

“We are, yes. For my birthday. That isn’t a date, either.”

“I don’t care, alright? I would happily throw a damn _party_ if you went on a date with Reggie, because then the Black brother who _I’m_ practically married to might stop pretending to worry that his baby brother’s going to die a virgin and deal with the shit that he’s _actually_ all kinds of a mess about.” Potter slumped back into the wall, watching Barty as though trying to find any indication of _anything_ that might have proven him a liar. After a moment, he shrugged.

“Then again,” he said, “Sirius actually dealing with any of his problems would make my life a lot less interesting, and it’s not like I only meant it halfway when I told him he’s like my brother and I love him. Same as you and Reggie, I’d bet, even though he’s an uptight, vindictive little swot.”

“As entertaining as your hypotheses are for you,” Barty said, “Regulus and I are working on a project for Ancient Runes, and I would like to get back to it. What message does Sirius want passed along to his brother this time?”

“Oh, nothing special. He said something about wanting Regulus to know that he should stay away from Zonko’s and the tea shop tomorrow afternoon…” Potter smirked, and got a devious spark to his eyes. “But honestly, I think he just made that up so I’d have an excuse to figure out if you’re going on a Hogsmeade date with his baby brother.”

“It’s _**not**_ _a date_ , alright, Potter?” Barty liked to imagine his eyes flashing dangerously. In reality, he knew that he likely resembled an irate kitten — what else explained the way that Potter laughed and threw up his hands in mock-surrender? — but even so, it helped Barty somewhat to think that he had any potential to be someone dangerous.

Still laughing, Potter told him, “Alright, Blondie, alright! It’s not a date. I believe you — absolutely, entirely, I swear. And Helga’s tits, I’ll make sure Sirius is clearer than a crystal ball on that.”

But as he turned and headed down the corridor, Potter called back, “You ought to make sure _you_ know which way’s really up about it, though!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 **5.** Going to Hogsmeade together wasn’t a date.

It wasn’t a date on the next Hogsmeade weekend, either. Or on the one that fell after the last Quidditch match of the season at Hogwarts, after Slytherin just narrowly beat out Ravenclaw to take the Inter-House Cup.

It also wasn’t date when, after their O.W.L.s, the time came for the Ministry’s annual summer solstice fundraising gala for St. Mungo’s and Barty asked Regulus to accompany him once more — “It worked out so well last time… I simply thought that we might repeat the experience and… If you’d rather not come, I understand. It was just an idea.”

Regulus rolled his eyes and said, “Of course I’ll come. What else is the purpose of friends?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 **+1:** Regulus’s sixteenth birthday came on a Friday, three weeks after the Ministry’s gala but two weeks and three days after the actual solstice. There may not have been World Cup tickets to acquire this year, but there _was_ still a decent match scheduled, the British and Irish League’s second match between the Harpies and the Magpies. Even if it didn’t live up to all of the expectations that had been built up around it, both teams had done quite well in the season so far. Their squads looked promising on paper, as did their strategies and any attempt at comparing them, even shallowly — and if nothing else, they would almost certainly have the afternoon and evening to themselves alone.

True, they would not be allowed to go to the match without _some_ form of accompaniment. However, since Mother and her brother couldn’t spare the afternoon, and since Winky would need to be with the two of them, Barty and Regulus would be entrusted to Barty’s Grandfather. As he often did, the old man would likely let his grandson and Regulus go to their seats without him, promising to show up after he went to see which member of which team had invited Slughorn as one of their personal guests this time and sneak in some catching up with his own dear friend. Whether or not he managed that, Caspar Crouch would find his way to the bar and forget about the match entirely. After all, neither team was his beloved Arrows, so he couldn’t be bothered one way or the other.

So, their nominal chaperone would not _truly_ keep them from getting in some time where they could breathe, away from Regulus’s Mother, away from Barty’s Father, away from worrying about the results on their O.W.L.s, and away from fearing both Bellatrix and the uncommon, brooding intensity Regulus had seen in her since returning to Grimmauld Place for the summer hols. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

When Barty brought the tickets around to Grimmauld Place on Tuesday afternoon, he was fortunate enough to find Regulus alone, aside from Kreacher. Once Regulus whispered a request to the elf — _“Some tea, please, Kreacher? If you wouldn’t mind? Bring it to my bedroom. Barty and I will be up there”_ — Barty trailed behind him, patted the pocket where he’d put the envelope with the tickets, even though he hadn’t taken them out and so he couldn’t have lost them. He tried not to bound up the stairs and betray his excitement. He only managed to restrain himself because Regulus was moving so slowly, and his hands were trembling, whether ghosting along the bannister or hanging at his side, trying to stay clenched in a fist. As they drew nearer to his room, Regulus took longer between steps, eyes lingering on the stern portraits of his deceased, distinguished ancestors from the House of Black and skimming over the heads of the family’s late, loyal House Elves mounted on the wall.

Barty furrowed his brow and frowned at his best friend’s back. Something wasn’t right, and for all he couldn’t imagine what it was, Barty didn’t like it. Patting at the envelope in his pocket again made it heavier, or it seemed that way. Something thick lumped up in Barty’s throat, and the questions started nagging at him: _How can I even **dare** to think of asking him to a Quidditch match like this? When **he** looks like this and when he’s acting… however he’s currently acting? Whatever the right words for this are? Not like **himself** , that’s how he’s acting. Would Quidditch tickets even help right now? Would they help if he got them from someone other than me? Or would my asking make break everything — break it that much worse, anyway?_

Still looking pale and seasick, Regulus closed the door to his bedroom most of the way, leaving only a crack so that Kreacher would know he didn’t need to knock when he brought them the tea. Without a word, he dropped to his bed and looked up at Barty almost desperately, as if he hoped that Barty had somehow finally discovered the ultimate truth of the universe, or the answer to some question of unfathomable importance. Perhaps, he was looking for a secret that would end the war tonight. He gasped when Barty reached into the inside pocket of his robes, and unmistakably, he sighed in deep relief when Barty only brought out the envelope—

“I thought you might be…” Trailing off, Regulus shook his head. “No, don’t worry. It’s nothing. Even if it weren’t, I just — and you wouldn’t — Barty, no. Go on, please. It doesn’t matter what I thought.”

“It matters _to me_ ,” Barty started, but he let any further comments on that die in his throat, because things continued seeming _wrong_ about this situation.

Something about _**Regulus**_ was _wrong_. Maybe Barty couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was, but it refused to settle back into an equilibrium that more closely resembled how he usually acted. Regulus had one of his hands in his lap and he couldn’t keep it still. The other hand gripped at his bedsheets, going white-knuckled at first, then paling all the way up to his wrist, holding fast to the sheets as though clinging at a last hope to save him from who even knew what. He couldn’t keep his eyes fixed on Barty, but kept checking the door, looking over his shoulder to check the window. Whenever he did let his gaze stay on Barty, the desperation didn’t fade.

Unfortunately, it didn’t abate when Barty proposed the plan for Friday, either. Not that Barty had thought Regulus would whoop like a Gryffindor or ask Kreacher to create a parade for them, or anything so foolish as that. Expecting any particularly effusive displays of excitement from Regulus would have been folly and would have only ended in disappointment, even on a day when he was not so ill-at-ease and acting so entirely unlike himself. Even so, his parents were not around to snap at him about decorum or the proper behavior that was expected of him, as the scion of the House of Black, so Regulus might have done _something_ more than look at Barty in disbelieving silence. When Barty pulled the tickets out of the envelope and handed them over, Regulus might have done more than give him a small, quivering _attempt_ at a smile, one that twitched his lips but didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re certain that your grandfather won’t actually intrude on anything?” he said, reading over the back of one ticket for the second time.

“Of course he won’t…” Barty nodded and fussed with one of his sleeves. He didn’t take his eyes off of Regulus. “He has no interest in either team, or in whatever we get up to—”

“I just don’t want him snooping around after us. I don’t need anything getting back to Bellatrix, not with the way that she and Mother have been talking since I got home… With the things they’ve been saying… And considering what I’m certain they have planned for _Saturday_ …”

“The only place that my Grandfather _ever_ wants to speak to Bellatrix is in a DMLE interrogation room.” Barty said it soberly, matter-of-factly, and shrugged. He tried not to let his voice speed up or start getting higher, but with how sick Regulus looked and how he _still_ didn’t seem happy about anything… With the way he seemed like he might never smile again…

“Besides, even if he _were_ still an active Auror, he’d never get the chance to do it. From what I’ve heard, they have nothing concrete enough to even ask her in for _questioning_ , much less to make her an official suspect in any open cases, and they certainly don’t have anything on Narcissa, or their parents, or _your_ parents — and he may not be  _fond_ of you, but Grandfather isn’t fond of  _anybody_ and he’d _never_ let them bring you in for _anything_. When Mother asked him to chaperone us, he asked if you’d ever been to a live Quidditch match before. Because he thinks that you literally never go outside. But please, I promise. Grandfather certainly won’t talk to Bellatrix about anything. He _hates_ her. Why are you even—”

“Is this a _date_?”

Barty stopped mid-syllable as that question smacked him in the face. It hung in the air between them for a long moment. He wasn’t thinking about it, not once the meaning of the words had sunk in properly. After hearing them so often for the past several months, they all made perfect sense — at this point, Barty ought to have denied the accusation reflexively, without leaving any room for further inquiry — and yet? His mouth was dry, his tongue felt stuck behind his teeth, and his thoughts refused to come to him in words or, indeed, anything that he could expect another human being to comprehend.

“Barty,” Regulus said again, tightening his grip on his sheets. “Are these tickets  _more_ than an unqualified birthday present? Are you asking me on a _date_?”

Barty straightened up his back and squared his shoulders. He made himself look Regulus directly in the eye. “Yes… Yes, I think I am. At least…” He sighed and swallowed thickly. “That’s what I’m asking, if it would be alright with you.”


End file.
